Back and Forth
by Broken Boys
Summary: Dean is cursed to not be able to keep food down. Sam has to struggle to help his brother survive. Skinny!Dean/Sick!Dean.


Dean can hear the soft whispers of the people staring at him and his brother as they walk through the restaurant. It's a little after two in the afternoon on a Saturday, so the place isn't packed; however, there are still enough curious eyes to make his skin crawl. Honestly, he knows the patrons are looking more at him and not so much at his brother. If it had been two months earlier and he'd seen a sickly, thin, pale looking man being guided through a restaurant with the assistance of a supportive hand on his elbow, he'd have fucking stared, too.

It was over. It's finally over. Sam, after looking for months, had finally found the bitch and killed her and burned the small, stolen lock of Dean's hair that she'd been using to slowly kill the hunter.

The hasty spell had been simple but powerful.

The hunters discovered the coven and used a measure of slightly questionable force to influence them to stop their evil practices. There'd been a scuffle and ugly words had been shouted and screamed by witches and hunters alike. Without thinking of any possible backlash, Dean not so kindly referred to the coven as a "bunch of sick, skinny bitches who should spend more time eating and less time spewing their evil all over town." Those words and a pinch of stolen hair he'd unknowingly lost during their scuffle had been the catalyst for the months of suffering he'd endured.

But it was over. It's finally over. Dean's no longer cursed to "be a skinny bitch, one who cannot eat, one who can only drink, for when he eats he spews all over, for as he starves he melts away a little more everyday."

So yeah, the whispers of the others in the restaurant bother him, but it doesn't really matter. He's finally going to be able to eat something solid, enjoy it, and keep it down. He's finally allowed to live without crippling stomach pains, joint pains, and headaches, and he's fucking relieved.

The pains in his stomach had been like nothing he'd ever experienced.

The sharp, shooting pains as his empty stomach turned and churned and got smaller and smaller in its fight to pull nourishment from a body that was receiving little to none had made it difficult for him to even think straight. The pain from vomiting nothing but spit and bile and retching up nothing but the water, coke, and tea his body only somewhat tolerated had felt like he was being repeatedly stab in the gut. The muscles in his stomach constantly ached. His chest constantly burned. His throat was constantly raw. His mouth tasted of acid and blood. His stomach had made noises that both scared and hurt him, and he'd almost gotten to the point were he thought that was how he was going to die.

But it was over. It's finally over. He's now sitting at a table with his nervous and somewhat worried looking brother about to eat a little something, and he'll be damned if he lets the stares burning holes into him ruin this moment.

The waitress smiles as she approaches the table and takes Sam's order; yet, Dean can't help but notice the way the woman never quite looks him in the eyes as she takes his. And it's okay. He knows how bad he looks. He knows how gaunt and thin his face and body have become. He knows that his clothes look like they belong to a much larger man.

He'd never had much body fat to begin with, and the curse had hit him hard and fast. So what little body fat he'd had was pretty much gone after two weeks of puking up nearly everything he'd tried to eat or drink, and his body had quickly moved on to consuming muscle and whatever else it could find in the weeks that followed when all he'd been able to handle was the thinnest of liquids.

There had even been days when he'd gone without water when the constant puking and retching left him with being able to do nothing more than lay in bed, struggling not to sob as he felt his body deteriorating in the most painful of ways. Those were the days when his belly would spasm nonstop and his throat would mechanically move up and down as he rolled on his side in bed to allow the thin strings of bile and stomach acid to flow onto the towel by his cheek. Those were the days when he would've welcomed death if the curse hadn't kept him tethered to this world; if Sam's fighting to keep anything inside of him hadn't kept him tethered to this world.

And the constant, daily vomiting had been the absolute worst part of it all.

In the beginning during that first week or so, it hadn't been so bad. Well, it was bad, but it was nothing like the night that Sam found him laying on the bathroom floor about a month in panting and gasping because of the charley horse clamped around his stomach. The charley horse that decided to take up permanent residence in his middle. Sometimes, it felt like several lengths of rope had been pulled excruciatingly tight around his stomach, and he couldn't move for fear of breaking in half.

But it was over. It's finally over.

In the beginning when he'd been painfully hungry, he'd dream of the meals his body craved. However, when the hunger turned into true starvation, food became something that haunted his nightmares, and the pain of constantly vomiting so much made him nearly despise food. Nearly, but no longer. So he can't bring himself to give a damn how the waitress looks at him, finally looks him in the eyes, as she places their meals on the table.

And neither brother says anything as they slowly began to eat their meals.

The first day after the curse had been lifted, he'd been able to keep down the electrolyte drinks and vitamins he'd been given. On the next day, Sam had cautiously approached his bed with a small bowl of tomato and rice soup, and he'd been able to eat a little of it before he felt he couldn't handle anymore. So went the next day and the next.

But today, this new 'next' day, is different.

He needs something more. Something solid. And even if it'll be a while before he gets back to the 'old Dean' and his old way of eating, he still wants a taste of that old life. He still wants a taste of the life he'd had before he was reduced to maybe 150, if he's lucky, and left feeling as weak as a kitten.

Using hands that shake a lot less than they had almost a week ago, Dean picks up half of the BLT on the plate in front of him and takes a small bite. As he chews, all of the amazing flavors that he'd been denied for much too long sing as they hit his taste buds. It's warm. It's delicious. But most importantly, it's nourishing.

It's finally over, and not even the warm tears running down his face can ruin this moment.

~ ~ ~


End file.
